


Sherlock Holmes: The One That Got Away

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Frustration, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Memories, Mystery, Obsessive Sherlock, One-Shot, POV Third Person Omniscient, Promises, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 10:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: No matter how long it took, or what he had to do, Sherlock would give her back the life she lost. After all she had done for him, he owed her that much. When the time came, he would say goodbye in his own way.





	Sherlock Holmes: The One That Got Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoeEyedDarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoeEyedDarling/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Reader-bach Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316374) by [DoeEyedDarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoeEyedDarling/pseuds/DoeEyedDarling). 
  * Inspired by [42,048,000 Beats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757342) by [markfuckerberg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/markfuckerberg/pseuds/markfuckerberg). 



[Sherlock Holmes: The One That Got Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ahha3Cqe_fk)

It couldn’t be helped. It was just one of those days. A day Sherlock Holmes spent pondering the most profound and painstakingly miserable questions of life. He had had many days like this, days when he shut the window, slammed down the blind, and tore the curtains closed. Days when he lay in bed undressed, unwashed and unmotivated. Days when he had to force himself to stagger into the bathroom, to face the bright white light, to look at himself in the mirror.

He never liked what he saw, what he thought, what he saw he thought, or what he thought he saw. What did it matter? He was smart, the rest of the world was dumb, dim and depressingly devoid of any source of entertainment. That was what he let people think, what he permitted them to see, what he made them think they thought they saw.

It was all too confusing for John. He always gave up, eventually. It was the thought that counted, and he did appreciate it, but there was no point wasting his breath to say: ‘thank you’, not when there was nothing to be thankful for.

He did what he did when he did it because he had to, not because he wanted to, but they had become synonymous to the rest of the world and Sherlock had long since given up trying to correct them. He rode the waves, sailed the oceans and ran aground on the sharp shoals of life alone. It was easier this way. There was no one he could count on, no one that could understand him, no one who he could trust, not truly.

The knock at the door was familiar, a steady, strong, confident, if quiet, little melody, the first line from the song _Doe, Ray, Me_. He said nothing, did nothing, expected nothing in return. There was a pause, then a _squeak_ of rusted, ill-oiled hinges, followed by the subtle creaking of old weathered floorboards. Someone was in his room, and he had a very good idea who, but he could not be sure. There were people, as few and far between as they were, capable of putting two and two together.

His obsession was no secret. She was the last one, the only puzzle he had yet to complete, to solve, to store away in his Mind Palace as another intellectual victory. His memory served a low blow every time he let his thoughts wander, a devastating defeat at the hands of stupidity. He had no answers for her, and with every passing day, Sherlock was increasingly certain he never would.

She was humming a trail of tunes, slipping from one to the next, before settling on a painfully melancholic song, an ironically fitting iron nail in his wooden coffin. He did not, would not, hum along with her, and so he lay there in silence, head facing the wall, back drawn to the rest of the world. It dimmed the rays of light that slithered through the curtains she opened, the blind she lifted, and the window she raised. He had no knowledge of the date, and he could not recall if summer had passed or only just started, but the breeze felt blessedly cool on his feverishly flushed skin.

She was still humming, and with two-minutes-and-forty-seconds left of her song, there was no end to misery she could cause him. He suspected John had broken the news to her, again, that she had insisted she should visit, again, and he had been powerless to dissuade her, again. He watched her shadow slide over the wall and slip into the bathroom, her voice swallowed by the sound of running water, the splashes choreographed - each with its own purpose - and some small part of him mourn the loss of her youthful abandon.

He remembered her smile, her laugh, the day she danced in the rain, jumping in puddles and just enjoying life. He remembered her frown, her groaning moans, the week she spent cooped up in bed with a cold.

It was worth it, she said.

When she was abed Christmas day with swollen eyes, a sore throat and a heaving chest that could not draw breath to save her life, say said: It was worth it, Sherlock, just to see you smile.

In his defence, she started it. The snowball fight was _her_ idea. Playing hide-and-go-seek was _her_ idea. Making Snow Angels was a… improvised addition to a decadent daydream. He remembered the flush of blood in her cheeks, the life alight in her eyes, the smile that stretched her chapped lips and made them bleed.

He remembered the urge, the desire to kiss, to lick, to taste, to treasure.

She woke him up with her crying, coughing and vomiting. John could sleep through his violin solos composed at the three in the morning. She would tiptoe downstairs to listen, waiting in the hall, clapping when he finished. He didn’t want an audience. He _needed_ one.

You need a friend, Sherlock, say said. Let me in.

He locked her out, but she kept coming back and he couldn’t understand why.

She turned the tap off, her humming resumed, the same song on repeat, most likely memorised from her iPod. If she had the speakers on, he had heard nothing. She always kept the sound so low, not because she didn’t want to disturb, him but because she didn’t like loud noises. Her hearing was exceptional, but her eyesight was bordering on critical. Her sense of smell left much to be desired, but she had exceptional taste for one so young. It was unfortunate her palette didn’t extend to alcohol – he might be able to prize some more answers out of her that way – but it made cooking much less of a chore.

Right here, right now, singing her soft lullaby – what was he, five? – she sat beside him and placed something on the bedside table. Water crashed down, back into a bowl he assumed, and she ran cold, wet fingers around his neck. He shivered, an involuntary reaction, but she said nothing, choosing instead to draw his greasy, lank hair aside and turn his head into an ancient rock face. The water ran down in wide rivers, soaking through his skin, her hand scraping off layers of dead skin with a wet, coarse rag.

It was something to feel, to focus on, to analyse. She did not hesitate, not even for a moment, and she repeated the action thrice, stooping low on the fourth go to brush his clean cheek with a chase kiss. He felt a droplet fall, but he tasted salt on his lips, and he knew it had not come from him.

He turned over to tell her to go away, secretly desperate for her to stay. He had so many questions to ask her, a puzzle to finish, a case to solve. He needed to know.

All words died and his mind stuttered to a halt as he drank in the sight of her face, the way her flesh had swelled, the number of blood vessels that had been broken and burst, the corrupted colour of her bruises that twisted her skin like the decaying flesh of a mummified corpse.

“Jane…”

He reached out, an instinctive reflex, one he could not control, and she took his hand in hers, running fingers over sweat stained skin to rub soothing circles over his pulse. He taught her that trick, a titbit of knowledge he learned from the good Doctor. She tried to smile but it brought tears to her eyes, muscles contracting painfully despite all John’s tender love and care. He would not see her smile for a while, it would hurt too much for her to bear. Sherlock knew the feeling. But she was young, she still had hope, and here she sat, by his side, watching her life fly by.

She was kicked out the door into the storm. The halo around her neck had eyes and they glared at him. The tiny gouge in the corner of her right eye had a mouth with teeth that laughed at him. Her fingers were stiff, unyielding, and the splintered, broken bones bite at him. There’s no blood, the cast and bandages long gone, but these wounds should never have been inflicted on one so young.

He raised a second hand, his right hand, and his thumb circled the underside of her left eye. More tears fell, but she insisted that she was fine, a controlled whisper devoid of all emotion. That was supposed to be his voice, not hers. He has questions and she had the answers, but they shot to the surface all at once and his sentences erupted in screams. He didn’t mean to scare her but she jumped nonetheless, bouncing on the bed. He can’t face her and covered his eyes fighting the overwhelming urge to cry.

“Sherlock, please… don’t leave me.”

Her words are course, refined, the paused staged for the greatest effect, and out of the corner of his eye he can see that her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, nails biting into frozen flesh. There is no blood to draw, not anymore. She’s begging him for one thing, but he knows she yearns for another. She doesn’t want to die without knowing, and he’s the only one who can find the answers. That will have to wait, just as it always has because that _monster_ has returned. He found her again and beat her black and blue. He dreaded to think what the rest of her body looked like, but he knew she would show him if he asked.

“Not yet,” he assures.

Whether his words are aimed at him or her, he does not know.

“Not _ever_!” she insisted, putting venom behind her words, emptying the bowl onto his head.

The water has grown warmer, but the open window made him feel the chill. He turned in place, throwing his feet over the edge of the bed, and his world spun out of control. A pair of hands centred him. She did not fuss or fume, radiating a calm and confident aura, her eyes dark and determined.

He remembers when he first saw them, pinpricks of light inside a walking corpse. She tricked Sergeant Donovan into getting him a _good_ cup of tea – black, two sugars, and he has yet to learn how she knew – before she could be properly introduced.

“Until further notice, she’s a Jane Doe.”

A _living_ Jane Doe.

Surely out there, _somewhere_ , there was someone, _anyone_ , searching for her. She remembered new details every day: the colour of her sister’s eyes, the role her mother performed in her high school play, the name of the woman and the daughters his father traded his family for.

“I… No. I don’t remember my name, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Jane.”

And she wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not _ever_ if Sherlock had his way. He made a promise, and how could not when confronted with such an intriguing mystery? No one knew her, no one remembered her because she didn’t exist. She never existed. She was dead before she was born. But she was singing so, at least inside, she felt alive, still believed that life was worth living.

“I’ll get dinner ready,” she smiled.

“What day is it?” he asked, standing in the bathroom doorway, eyeing the still steaming bathtub.

She chuckled, the sound annoyingly short. “Our anniversary.”

John had insisted that it was, for some reason, unhealthy to consider the day she escaped certain death as a second birthday. She had been quick to point out it had also been the day she met him, the one and only Sherlock Holmes. That was the day he first saw her smile, the day he first heard her laugh, the day Sherlock found himself so confoundedly confused, and so irrevocably interested, that he had been far too distracted to argue with anyone about anything.

“Four years…” he sighed, feeling obscenely old.

“And we’ll take the fifth one day at a time,” she promised, closing the door behind her.

He could have gone back to bed, but he was awake, his mind restless, ravenous for some form of stimulation. Sherlock lowered himself into the scalding water slowly, the fluttering spasms of pain serving as shots of adrenaline, nicotine, and he could smell the caffeine wafting up from the kitchen below. He heard the tinkling of china and the tell-tale creaking that spoke of lighter feet plodding up the narrow staircase methodically.

She would be carrying two trays, one in each hand, the food and drink resting safely in her right, and a stake of papers – ranked oldest to most recent, positioned from top to bottom – sitting precariously on the left. She would hand him the oldest paper, serve him tea, and disappear into his room. When he emerged there would be light, life, a set of clean clothes would be waiting for him and, more often than not, he would ignore them to wade downstairs and ask the pressing questions. He had John floundering for air when he neglected to use a towel. Fortunately, he was the sole witness to that spectacle, and it had served as a poignant reminder, a memory he locked away in his deepest, darkest dungeon.

“For once in your life, think before you act, Holmes! What if Jane were here?”

Her name was _not_ Jane, no matter what she said, no matter what anyone else said, but he would find out what it was. He would find out who kidnapped her, why her family abandoned her, and when they really should celebrate her… anniversary. No matter how long it took, or what he had to do, Sherlock would give her back the life she lost. After everything she had done for him, he owed her that much. When the time came, he would say goodbye in his own way.

**Author's Note:**

> First, I want to thank 'DoeEyedDarling' for the inspiration that served to create this character, and secondly, I want to thank 'bananalana' (see chapter three) for the inspiration that made this one-shot a reality. Please check out their works if you get the chance, feel free to offer constructive criticism, and please let me know if there are any tags you would like me to add. - AS


End file.
